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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27395434">Bloody Bard</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheepishwolfy/pseuds/sheepishwolfy'>sheepishwolfy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Beasts in Fields of Flowers [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Friends With Benefits, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, but not quite to lovers, yet - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 00:27:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>15,334</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27395434</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheepishwolfy/pseuds/sheepishwolfy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A wolf should not die alone in sunlight. It’s an unfair end, blood seeping slowly into dry, cracked earth, poison sluggish in his veins. Bones left to bleach in the summer heat, picked clean by carrion birds, forgotten and unmourned. This would not be the way Geralt of Rivia dies, Jaskier decided. Not when there was still a big fucking sword at hand.</p><p>Or, the one where Jaskier slays the monster.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Beasts in Fields of Flowers [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2001310</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>381</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Best Geralt</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Bloody Bard</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geralt heard the bard before he saw him, a sunny laugh that soared over the dull hum of taproom chatter. It shouldn’t surprise him anymore, Jaskier appearing in a seemingly random village so small it barely justified a marker on the maps. It was simply his nature, fluttering out of the ether to alight at Geralt’s shoulder like a particularly pushy songbird. </p><p>It would be a lie to say he was unwelcome.</p><p>Without so much as a greeting, Jaskier crossed the room and leaned so close his chest brushed up against Geralt’s spine. He did everything but hook his chin over the witcher’s shoulder as he scanned the contract laid out upon the dented table.</p><p>“Tell me, witcher, how does one slay a wyvern?”</p><p> “Big fucking sword usually does the trick,” Geralt said, reaching for the heavy tankard at his elbow. Nimble musician’s fingers snatched it out from beneath his grasp, and Jaskier flowed away from Geralt’s attempt to recover his drink.</p><p>“That just isn’t very poetic, is it?” Jaskier laughed, settling astride the bench at Geralt’s left. Bringing the stolen mug to his lips, he drank and pulled a dreadful face. “Well, that’s horrid.”</p><p>“You were expecting a Novigrad white?” Geralt asked. </p><p>Jaskier smacked his lips in distaste, setting the mug down and pushing it towards Geralt with one finger. He leaned an elbow on the table, propped his chin in his hand. “I was expecting something <em> drinkable</em>, at the very least.”</p><p>Geralt glanced pointedly at the smoky interior of the tavern. Grey and dreary, even in late summer. “Not sure what you’re doing here, then.” </p><p>“I’d heard there was a dragon in the area,” Jaskier replied. “Imagine the songs I could’ve written about <em> that</em>! Sadly, when I was halfway here I discovered it was, in fact, a wyvern. But then I thought, a contract such as this? My dear friend Geralt of Rivia must be nearby, and it’s been an age since I’ve seen him.”</p><p>“A month, if that,” Geralt grumbled, albeit fondly, into his shitty beer. “Ran out of money, didn’t you.”</p><p>“Neither here nor there, my good White Wolf,” Jaskier sniffed. </p><p>Geralt grinned toothily, a hunter finding wounded prey. “Creditors don’t check southern backwaters.”</p><p>“So, what of it? Perhaps I should not return to Whitebridge this year,” Jaskier said, long neck craned as though he could physically overlook his own shortcomings. “What manner of wyvern are we slaying? What’s our next move?”</p><p>“<em>We</em>?” Standing, Geralt drained the dregs from his mug, fished a few coins from his pocket to leave on the table. “<em>I</em> am going to speak to the ealdorman.”</p><p>“And I shall join you!” Jaskier said brightly, following along behind. </p><p>Geralt shook his head, but didn’t protest aloud, muttering only, “If you must.”</p><p>He left Roach in the stableyard, along with what must have been Jaskier’s horse, a fine grey mare. They made an arduous journey of… all of fifteen feet to the ealdorman’s house. It was a small village, a few buildings clustered around a modest inn. Didn’t even have a name. Barely more than a hamlet, with most of the population spread out among farms and orchards further out to field. A breadbasket for Vizima, where Geralt had found the contract in the first place.</p><p>A woman tall and broad as an oak opened the door on the second knock. She surveyed the two men on her doorstep with a keen eye that took in Geralt’s two swords and Jaskier’s fine clothes.</p><p>“I take it you’re here about the contract?” she asked. Her voice was brusque and warm, made moreso by the scent of bread drifting through the open door. </p><p>“Heard you’ve got a wyvern problem,” Geralt replied. “This the ealdorman’s home?”</p><p>“Ealdor<em> woman. </em> And yes,” she said. Patting floury hands on her apron, she extended one towards them. “Jayne Dennet.”</p><p>Geralt took the offered hand, a quick, firm shake. Jayne had a grip that seemed better suited for a sword than kneading dough. “Geralt of Rivia.”</p><p>“I’ve heard of you,” Jayne said. Nodding towards Jaskier, she asked, “Who’s the little one?”</p><p>“This is—”</p><p>Shouldering past the witcher, Jaskier placed an elegant hand against his breast, saying with a gracious incline of his head, “Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove and Master of the Seven Liberal Arts at your service, good madame Dennet.”</p><p>Rather than shake, he bowed low over her broad hand, feathering the floury back of it with a kiss. He could <em> hear </em> Geralt roll his eyes behind him.</p><p>“Jayne is fine,” the ealdorwoman said slowly. A distant suspicion pinched her face as she watched Jaskier straighten.</p><p>“Don't mind him,” Geralt rumbled, as Jaskier backed up again. “Tell me about your wyvern.”</p><p>“Would you like to come in?” Jayne asked, stepping aside. “We don’t have much here, but I can feed you while we talk.”</p><p>“Appreciate it,” Geralt said, slipping past the ealdorwoman into the house.</p><p>It was a quaint thing, her home. Mostly kitchen, with a screen dividing a little less than a third of the floorspace for her bed. A large oven dominated the far corner, and a hearth beside. Something that smelled enticingly of sage and thyme simmered away above the fire. Cupboards and cabinets lined the walls, herbs and flowers hung from the ceiling to dry. Fresh loaves of bread rested at one end of a longer table near the hearth, a pale mound of dough at the other end of its floured surface.</p><p>She sat them at a sturdy little table beneath a window looking over the fields behind the town. Wildflowers swayed in gentle breezes, and wheat beyond. Far afield lie an apple orchard, dots of red visible even at the distance. Picturesque, if not for the looming threat of wyvern attack.</p><p>“Something started stealing sheep from Henrik’s pastures about two months back,” Jayne explained, rifling through cupboards. “Figured they were escaping somehow, though the fence was fine. No other explanation for it, though, aye? No blood or bones. Wolves’ll leave a carcass, same for any other beasts come wandering out of the forest.” </p><p>Geralt nodded, <em> hmm</em>-ed. “They were being carried away.”</p><p>“So they were!” Jayne exclaimed. She balanced two bowls in one strong arm, ladling stew into each from the pot. “Henrik said as much, said a ‘huge fucking bat’ was snatching his lambs and flying away. We thought he was crazy. Found out the hard way he was right when a great leathery thing came swooping out of the sky, bold as brass, and stole my neighbor’s ox.”</p><p>“That’s awfully rude,” Jaskier said. </p><p>“Putting it lightly,” Jayne said, with an amused snort. She set the full bowls before them, along with a braided loaf of bread.</p><p>Geralt continued his questioning between enormous bites of food. They discussed the approximate size and color of the creature, the number of legs (two) and wings (also two), how often it had been seen. It never failed to amaze Jaskier the sheer amount of <em> study </em> that went into monster hunting, interviews and investigation to weave a tapestry of the monster before it was ever seen by witcher eyes. </p><p>He supposed that’s why they lived so long. A relentless dedication to preparedness.</p><p>It was also slow work, being so thorough. Jayne seemed more than pleased to talk at length, beating bread dough into submission as they spoke. Jaskier, once finished eating, took out his lute and began idly plucking, underscoring the conversation with an airy tune. All things considered, not the worst way to kill an afternoon. Certainly better than debtor’s jail or busking for unappreciative bar patrons.</p><p>Eventually the talk circled around to payment, and Jayne pursed her lips.</p><p>“I said before, we don’t have much,” she said, resting her palms upon the table. “I can offer you a room at the inn, and I’ll feed you dinner every day.”</p><p>“Your cooking is delightful, ealdorwoman, but it won’t pay for repairs,” Geralt said evenly. “Contract did mention a gold reward.”</p><p>“Only way to make sure we get a response, innit?” Jayne said, with an entirely unapologetic shrug. “I can cut you fifty crowns.”</p><p>“That’s <em> it</em>?” Jaskier said, fingers stilling on the strings. </p><p>“Bit tight on funds, on account of the stolen ox,” Jayne said. “Good stock doesn’t come cheap, you know.”</p><p>“So I’ve heard.” Geralt rubbed a hand over his beard, gazing thoughtfully down into his empty stew bowl. “Two meals a day, and a hundred crowns. Half now.”</p><p>Jayne sucked her teeth, considering. “Breakfast if you’re here by eight every morning, and seventy-five. In entirety, when you bring me its head.”</p><p>Jaskier frowned. “That’s hardly—”</p><p>“That’ll do,” Geralt said, shooting a pointed look at Jaskier. The bard snapped his mouth shut with an audible click. </p><p>Pushing to his feet, Geralt sketched half a bow at Jayne. “Thank you for the hospitality, ealdorwoman. It’s a rare thing for a witcher.”</p><p>“Least I can do if you’ll be handling our little problem,” she replied, stepping around the table to see them out. </p><p>“Lovely meeting you, Jayne, I look forward to the morning when we may meet again,” Jaskier said at the door, smiling broadly. </p><p>“Good luck hunting,” she said, over Jaskier’s head. </p><p>Geralt nodded, lifted a hand in a motionless wave, and the door clicked shut.</p><p>They made it to the packed dirt road before Jaskier said, “You’re being shorted, you know, wolf. You think seventy-five crowns is enough for an entire wyvern?”</p><p>“Jaskier, they don’t have anything,” Geralt said, pausing as a cart rumbled past. </p><p>“You believe her?” Jaskier asked. </p><p>“You don’t?” Geralt said, half-turning towards the bard. “You do enough contracts, you learn the ones who are full of shit. I’d be more suspicious if she offered me a thousand crowns.”</p><p>Jaskier frowned, considering that so intently he fell behind and had to jog to catch up. “How so?” </p><p>“When they offer you big purses, half the time they’ve no intent to follow through,” Geralt said, as he strode across the inn’s small stableyard. Roach lingered at a trough, still saddled. “The ones who pay a pittance with a straight face? Usually, it’s everything they’ve got.”</p><p>“You still haggled her up.” Jaskier slung his lute case across his back, and hauled up into his own saddle. “What if she only had the fifty?”</p><p>“Then I would’ve done it for fifty,” Geralt shrugged, wheeling Roach around to steer her onto the road. Surprisingly, he had nothing to say about Jaskier riding along. </p><p> </p><p>It was blisteringly hot as they traversed the countryside, and Jaskier found himself wondering if witcher mutagens shielded one against the heat. He had to unbutton his doublet, and then shed it entirely, lest he sweat himself to death on a winding backroad. Better to be seen in one’s undershirt than collapse out of the saddle from heat exhaustion. Geralt, on the other hand, rode along stoic as ever in his gods-knew-how-many layers of leather armor. Not a flush of sunburn nor a trickle of sweat marred his pale face. The greatest concession he made to the heat was shucking his gloves and tying up his long hair.</p><p>They made a broad circuit of the farms, stopping to ask after missing livestock. At each farmhouse, Geralt took out a map and marked when and how many sheep or pigs were taken. It proved an impressive list, a score of animals stolen in just a few weeks. Oddly enough, it seemed to ignore chickens. More oddly, no one had actually <em>s</em><em>een </em>the thing, other than the time it stole the ox in broad daylight.</p><p>With every stop, the witcher seemed to grow increasingly disgruntled. His expression darkened, his vocabulary shrank, and he would mutter to himself as he notated his map. Too low for Jaskier to hear, but he caught something about <em> daylight </em> and <em> fucking goddamn draconids</em>.</p><p>“Are they usually nocturnal creatures?” Jaskier asked eventually, mopping at his brow with an already-sodden handkerchief. The sun was finally, blessedly, setting, and he felt fair caked in road-dust and sweat as they made their meandering way back to town. Hopefully this place had a bath of some sort.</p><p>“No,” Geralt said, and provided no further explanation all the way back to the inn.</p><p> </p><p>The innkeep recognized Geralt from his brief, earlier stop. He’d been friendly enough then, but now seemed more than a little sour at having to house the witcher for free. </p><p>“Lucky you I owe Jayne a favor,” the man said, scowling. He jabbed a stubby finger at Jaskier and said, “This one has to pay. I only agreed for a witcher.”</p><p>Jaskier slapped Geralt on the shoulder, grinning out from behind his considerable bulk. “Not to worry, we’ll be sharing.”</p><p>“Only one bed,” the innkeep frowned.</p><p>“That’s fine. He sleeps at the foot of it, like a dog,” Geralt said, with a flat backward glance at the bard. </p><p>“Good for the spine, you know,” Jaskier replied, not missing a beat. “All curled up tight, really stretches the muscles.”</p><p>“Right,” the innkeep said, slitting his eyes. “Room only. Gonna be extra if you want a bath or food or drink.”</p><p>“Fair,” Geralt said. He laid a few coins on the bar—enough for both of them, Jaskier was thrilled to see—and arranged for food to be brought up. </p><p>Food that arrived not two minutes after they were let into their room. Plain fare, the best of which was bread that had almost certainly come from the ealdorwoman. It was accompanied by hard cheese, cold chicken, and some manner of pickled vegetable Jaskier couldn’t identify, but Geralt guessed was radishes. Filling, and easy to pick over as Geralt disarmed and Jaskier dramatically threw himself across the bedspread, bemoaning the lack of feather mattress.</p><p>“Debtors shouldn’t complain,” Geralt said. Bracing a hand against the wall, he toed off one boot.</p><p>“You aren’t paying for this either, sir holier-than-thou,” Jaskier said, propping himself up on his elbows.</p><p>Geralt kicked off his other shoe. “You slay the wyvern, I’ll lie in bed and bitch about the cost of ale.” </p><p>“Absolutely not,” Jaskier scoffed. He watched as Geralt hooked his thumbs in the collar of his shirt and tugged it over his head. “I’m not sure I could even lift one of your swords.”</p><p>Geralt huffed a laugh, shook his head. “When <em> you </em> have the coin, you can be picky about the mattress.” He cast aside his shirt, draping it over the single chair. With a quiet groan he rolled his shoulders, flexing muscles stiff from an entire day in the saddle. </p><p>Jaskier slid his tongue across his lower lip, eyes riveted to the languid stretch of Geralt’s well-muscled back, the scars faded and new alike that made a latticework of his skin. Grinning like a cat, Jaskier stood and crossed the small room in a few short steps to press himself against the witcher’s spine.</p><p>“Oh, I have no coin to pay you, good sir witcher,” Jaskier hummed, slipping an arm around Geralt’s waist. With gentle fingers he pushed aside silver hair and laid a kiss at the base of Geralt’s neck. “I shall have to find another way to thank you.”</p><p>“That so?” Though he could not see it, Jaskier could hear the teasing smile in Geralt’s words. He made a sound low in his chest, a hungry almost-growl, as Jaskier continued to mouth at the curve of his shoulder.</p><p>The bard let out a pleased, musical laugh when Geralt turned, faster than he could blink. Strong hands framed his slender face, warm lips found his in a whiskery kiss. “I hope we might come to some agreement,” Jaskier said, as he was backed towards the bed. </p><p>“Figure something out,” Geralt murmured, tugging at Jaskier’s shirt where it was tucked into his pants. </p><p>They fell easily into bed, as they so often did. A heated tangle of limbs and quiet laughs, Geralt <em> hmm</em>-ing and Jaskier chattering until the witcher’s clever hands worked him breathless. Geralt, when afforded the time, was a tender lover. All gentle touches and languorous motion, leisurely and thorough. It was no small part of what kept Jaskier so tightly in his orbit, that Geralt fucked like a god. </p><p>Shame he did everything else with all the decorum of a man who’d sucked a thousand lemons.</p><p>Well, almost everything, Jaskier mused. He hunted monsters with dedication, apparently taking contracts for spare change and village gratitude alone. Later, Geralt sat cross-legged on the bed, naked as a new lamb, the map spread out before him on the sheets. He muttered to himself as he traced paths across it with his fingers, apparently triangulating something.</p><p>“Planning tomorrow’s jaunt across the fields?” Jaskier asked, reclined against the headboard. He played an aimless, quiet melody on the lute. A good tumble always stirred the creative energies, and Geralt gave much more than <em> good</em>.</p><p>“Trying to figure where the nest is,” Geralt replied, absently. “Looks like in the apple orchard.”</p><p>Jaskier sat a little straighter. “Nest? You think there might be more than one?” </p><p>“Not yet. Wouldn’t be a sheep left within ten miles if there were a whole clutch,” Geralt said. “This one’s been here for two months, but hasn’t been seen, other than when it took the ox, here. I’d guess it only showed itself then because the cart got too close. Means it’s settled. Territorial.”</p><p>Settling back again, Jaskier went back to playing. “And that’s unusual?” </p><p>“Everything is unusual, dealing with draconids,” Geralt said darkly. “Mark my words, if I die on a hunt, it’ll be to one of these fuckers. They’re wily, far too clever, and a pain in my ass.”</p><p>Looking over his shoulder, with a smile that showed a sharp hint of teeth, Geralt added, “Bit like you.”</p><p>Jaskier rolled his eyes, nudging Geralt in the spine with his foot. “I heard no complaints an hour ago. Maybe you should fuck the wyvern, too.”</p><p>“Too many teeth,” Geralt said, clicking his own for emphasis. He turned back to the map, and heaved a resigned sigh. “Hate to night-hunt something that flies, and this close to a new moon. Might not have a choice.”</p><p>“If you know where the nest is, just go find it in the day,” Jaskier said. </p><p>“This one’s flighty.” Geralt started to fold the map. “Could be young. If it hears me coming it’ll probably just take off. If it doesn’t… then I have to fight it in an apple orchard, which I don’t want to do.”</p><p>“Of course, wouldn’t want to ruin the lovely landscape.”</p><p>“Too enclosed.”</p><p>“Or that.”</p><p>Geralt tossed the folded map onto the floor by the bed, and laid back. Stretched out on top of the covers, he closed his eyes and folded his arms behind his head. “I’ll make a plan tomorrow.”</p><p>In a moment of unprovoked affection, Jaskier reached down and trailed the tips of his fingers over Geralt’s brow. Delicately brushing away silver hair, Jaskier said softly, “I’ll cease my caterwauling and let you sleep.”</p><p>Golden eyes fluttered slowly open, cat’s pupils wide in the dimness. Geralt met Jaskier’s gaze, and lazily shrugged a shoulder. “You can keep playing, if you want.”</p><p>“Oh! So he <em> does </em>enjoy my incessant strumming,” Jaskier teased. “Any requests, dear witcher?”</p><p>“Anything but <em> Toss a Coin</em>,” Geralt said, closing his eyes again. </p><p>“You simply don’t appreciate art <em> or </em> money,” Jaskier sighed. </p><p>He thought for a moment, started plucking something soothing and simple. New, composing as he went along. Geralt was asleep in minutes, most likely due to pure exhaustion, but Jaskier never wasted a chance to take credit. He’d have to hang onto this song. Calling it <em> Lullaby for the Wolf </em> was probably a bit on the nose, but he could workshop that later. For now he blew out the candles, and set aside his lute, and tucked himself up against the broad, warm expanse of Geralt’s ribs. </p><p>The bed was very small, after all, and there was only the one.</p><p> </p><p>Jayne fed them well in the morning, and sat with them at the table by the window. Over thick strips of fatback, eggs and wild raspberries and bread, Geralt told her what he’d learned. The wyvern seemed to be making a secretive circuit of the farms, but there was a pattern to its night stalking. </p><p>“I thought as much,” Jayne said, picking at a crusty heel of bread. “You know where it’ll hit next?”</p><p>“I have my suspicions,” Geralt said, which was news to Jaskier. “Think what I’ll do is try to bait it out tonight, get it by surprise. Maybe poison it. Do you have any meat you’re willing to spare?”</p><p>Jayne set down her bread, leveling Geralt with a hard, disbelieving stare. “You mean to tell me I could’ve poisoned the damn thing myself? Like an overgrown rat in the larder?” </p><p>“Not quite,” Geralt said, and smiled. He appreciated pragmatism. “Hard to poison them to <em> death </em>. The right stuff can slow it down enough to stab a few times, though.”</p><p>“I’ve got kitchen knives,” Jayne said, gesturing towards her hearth. </p><p>“Oh, I like you,” Jaskier said, grinning over his apple. “Ferocious.”</p><p>“Pure silver kitchen knives?” Geralt asked.</p><p>“Alright, you’ve got me there, witcher,” Jayne said, with a hearty laugh. “Maybe I’ll get one, next time I’m up Vizima way.”</p><p>Geralt laughed along with her. “One day I’ll be paying <em> you </em> to hunt my monsters.”</p><p>“And you can bake bread and settle petty village squabbles!” Jayne said, slapping Geralt on the arm. “Looks like you’ve got the arms for kneading dough.”</p><p>“Fair trade,” Geralt nodded. Standing gracefully, he gave a gracious bow. Even deeper than he had the day before. “Thank you for breakfast.”</p><p>“Thank you for fine company,” Jayne replied, with a broad grin that even encompassed Jaskier. “You as well.”</p><p>“The pleasure was all mine.”</p><p>Despite their agreement of breakfast and dinner only, Jayne sent them off with a sack of food. “Pasties and a few apples. Witchering seems like hungry work,” she said, pressing the neat cloth parcel into Geralt’s hands. A spray of wheat was embroidered in the dyed cotton.</p><p>Geralt led the way out of town, their horses single file on the narrower road between houses. Once the path broadened, Jaskier spurred his mount forward, sidling up close enough to Roach that he could lean and knock his elbow against Geralt’s.</p><p>“Play your cards right, I bet you could marry into ealdormanhood,” Jaskier said, unable to suppress a deeply amused grin. </p><p>“Don’t tempt me,” Geralt said, with the barest sideways glance. “She’s a good woman. Suppose a wyvern head is a worthy betrothal gift?”</p><p>Jaskier’s grin didn’t falter at all, despite the sudden pang of something unidentifiable deep in his chest. Something like putting his hand too close to an open flame.</p><p> </p><p>A few hours circling the fields and surveying the map later, Geralt seemed certain their wayward wyvern would pluck from a pig farm at the far edge of the orchards. It was small, just a few head of hogs. Owned and worked by a widower named Tormund and his two children. When Geralt proposed to them that he lie in wait in the ditch next to their pens, Tormund seemed less than wholly thrilled with the idea.</p><p>“Long as you stay outside,” he said, unsubtly angling himself in the doorway so that they wouldn’t be able to see his two daughters inside. “Don’t need any witchers around my Anna and Luce.”</p><p>“Oh, yes, surely a witcher is much worse than a <em> wyvern </em> around them, hey?” Jaskier said, irritated at the insinuation.  “At least that—”</p><p>“Won’t even need to come near the house again,” Geralt interjected, with a sharp look at the bard. “I’ll keep to the far side of the pens, anyway, keep it as far from you as I can.”</p><p>Tormund harumphed and crossed his arms. “Suppose that’d be fine. Better not lose any pigs.”</p><p>“I’d like to keep you in the same number of hogs and daughters by morning,” Geralt said. “I’ll be back around sundown.”</p><p>Eyeing Geralt head to toe, Tormund harumphed again and shut the door.</p><p>“Prick,” Jaskier muttered, as they walked back to the waiting horses. “You should just let the wyvern eat his pigs, and go next door tomorrow.”</p><p>“Wouldn’t do anyone any good,” Geralt said simply, heaving up onto Roach. “He’d still be a prick, and I’d still have to kill it tomorrow. May as well let him keep his pigs.”</p><p>“Do you always have to be so… so damn <em> gracious</em>?” Jaskier demanded. “Makes me look petty.”</p><p>“You <em> are </em>petty.”</p><p>“No one asked you.”</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier figured they’d go straight back to town and wait for sundown, but Geralt took them in the opposite direction. Out past the wheat fields, where wildflowers grew in tall, vibrant sprays along the roadside. Deer grazed in the tall grasses, springing away when the riders got too near. Eventually Geralt steered Roach off the path, towards a copse of quaking aspen. </p><p>They took their lunch in the shade of yellow leaves, sitting shoulder to shoulder on a plain woolen blanket. Geralt set his swords down in the grass, shed the outermost layer of his armor. Pushed up the sleeves of his shirt while he ate, and Jaskier noted a new arc of scar tissue encircling the witcher’s forearm. So new, in fact, it was a livid pink.</p><p>“Looks fresh,” he said. He reached out, traced the very tip of his finger over the scar.</p><p>Geralt, chewing a mouthful of apple, looked down at his arm. “Selkie,” he said, turning his wrist over to show the rest of it. Jaskier didn’t take his hand away, only followed the line of the scar towards Geralt’s elbow. “Coast of Skellige. She tried to drown me, just about tore my arm off in the doing.”</p><p>“And then you slew her, I suppose,” Jaskier said, the ballad already starting to form in his head. “And freed a fishing village from her reign of terror.”</p><p>“No,” Geralt said, tossing the apple core far out to field. “Didn’t kill her. It was a misunderstanding.”</p><p>“I will not lie to you, Geralt, I don’t care how much of a misunderstanding it is,” Jaskier said, lifting his eyebrows. “If I were you and someone tried to drown me, I’d probably stab them with one of my giant swords.”</p><p>“Bloodthirsty,” Geralt said fondly. He leaned down and kissed him, smiling into it. “My bloody little bard.”</p><p>Then he straightened, and looked out over the wildflowers, and kept talking like he hadn’t just done… that. Jaskier sat stunned for a long moment, barely registering a word from Geralt’s mouth. </p><p>His <em> mouth</em>! The very same that he’d just used to kiss Jaskier. Which, granted, he had done a hundred times before—and more than just kiss, even. Much more. But it was one thing to have a quick roll in an inn bed, here or there. It was wholly another to lead Jaskier out into an, honestly, comically idyllic field of flowers and kiss him softly and call him <em> my bloody little bard</em>. To call him “my” anything. </p><p>Or maybe it was nothing at all, with the way Geralt carried on, unperturbed. </p><p>“...told she was a drowner,” he was saying, when Jaskier’s brain caught up to the rest of his body. “When I went to her cove, she thought I’d come to kill her.”</p><p>“Thus the attempted drowning,” Jaskier said, voice only cracking a little.</p><p>Geralt nodded. “Once she realized I knew what she was, and kept my silver sheathed, she let go.”</p><p>“Kind of her.”</p><p>“Her Elder was… a bit off from what I know,” Geralt said. “I think she was separated from her kin, and injured, and couldn’t hunt. So she was sneaking food from the town.”</p><p>“What did you do? Leave her some salt pork and carry on?” Jaskier asked. </p><p>“Borrowed a boat, rowed her out to sea in the direction she pointed, and then she dove into the water and didn’t come back up. Assume she found her brethren.” </p><p>Jaskier laughed, patting Geralt’s arm before finally withdrawing his hand. “Geralt of Rivia, the monster hunter who frees the monsters.”</p><p>“Killing is easy,” Geralt said with a shrug. “I could’ve made six hundred ducat for her head. But easy isn’t always right.”</p><p>“Well, you’ll die penniless, but well-beloved by the smallfolk,” Jaskier said, jostling his shoulder against Geralt’s.</p><p>The witcher looked at him then, no hint of mocking in his little smile. Only earnestness when he said, “Would that be so bad?”</p><p>Jaskier could only hum a vaguely agreeable noise, fearful that if he spoke he might say something <em> far </em> too honest.</p><p>They finished eating in companionable silence. Companionable for Geralt, anyway. Jaskier still felt rattled, a bit like all his bones were half an inch out of place, but he couldn’t say he hated it. He turned Geralt’s words over in his head, <em> my bloody little bard. </em> My bard. My, my, <em> my</em>. Perhaps it was a slip, but in all the years Jaskier had known him, the witcher never said anything he didn’t, on some level, mean with his whole heart.</p><p>A whole heart was a delicate thing to toy with. Jaskier had broken a fair few in his day, had his own shattered more times than he’d like to count. By Geralt, no less, on several notable occasions. He spent quite a long while considering what he should say. <em> If </em>he should say anything at all, or simply let the moment slip by. </p><p>When the food was gone, and Geralt stood, Jaskier still had… nothing. No gallant proclamation, nor heartfelt confession. Not even a coy remark. His mind was blank but for Geralt calling him <em> mine</em>. Something must be done, though, before they left this field and returned to the world of monster slaying and non-committal.</p><p>Jaskier received a stay of execution when Geralt didn’t immediately pluck up his swords and armor. He left them in the grass, instead retrieved the heavy saddlebags draped over Roach’s broad back and slung them over his own shoulder.</p><p>“How did you find this… this bucolic little vista, Geralt?” Jaskier asked, framing the view between his hands like a painting. Perhaps a little probing, and he could get the witcher to confess something poetic.</p><p> <em>I brought my lovely bard to a lovely field to tell him how lovely he is, </em> he would say. <em> Not even promise of a battle could distract me from my true love— </em></p><p>“Rode by on my way in,” Geralt said, voice cutting through Jaskier’s musings. He shifted the saddlebags onto the ground, and knelt at a further edge of the blanket. “Seemed as good a place as any for alchemy.”</p><p>“Alchemy?” Jaskier repeated. Was this a metaphor? The complicated and volatile alchemy of emotions, perhaps. Lovers with a complex history, oil and water finally melding with the proper heat applied.</p><p>“Bomb making,” Geralt said. To illustrate his point, he began drawing empty flasks from one of the bags. </p><p>“Ah,” Jaskier said. Not a metaphor at all. He chewed the inside of his lip as Geralt continued laying out various vials and herbs and paper pouches.</p><p>“Lambert blew the roof off a barn in Toussaint once,” Geralt explained. “He almost lost a leg, I lost both my eyebrows. Try to keep it outdoors, since then.”</p><p>“Ah,” Jaskier repeated, considerably more strangled. He leaned fractionally away from the no-doubt volatile things spread alarmingly close to his appendages. “Should I, perhaps, back away? I shall make a poor wandering minstrel if I can no longer wander.”</p><p>“You’re already poor,” Geralt said.</p><p>Jaskier cut his eyes at Geralt, who didn’t even have the courtesy to look up while eviscerating him. “I’ve got to stop walking into those,” he muttered. “Ha, terribly funny, you are, witcher, but I’d like to keep both my legs.”</p><p>“Your legs will be fine.” </p><p>Unconvinced, Jaskier swallowed thickly. “Need I remind you I don’t have anywhere <em> near </em>the structural integrity of a barn?” </p><p>“And I’m a lot better at this than Lambert was forty years ago.” He frowned at his arrayed reagents, dug into the other saddlebag. “You’ll get ample warning if something goes wrong.”</p><p>“Well, I suppose this wouldn’t be the first time I’ve put my life in your hands, hm?” Jaskier said. He stood, brushed his hands against his pants despite there being nothing on them. “Still, I think I might—I’m just going to scoot over here, a little. Out of the… blast radius.”</p><p>He reseated himself a short distance away, leaning back against the narrow white trunk of an aspen. Truthfully he already felt like a bomb had gone off in his hands, one of his own shoddy making. He’d done the fool thing and overthought a <em> single word</em>. One day he would learn, but not, apparently, today. </p><p>As Geralt began meting out powders and oils to empty jars, Jaskier reached into the lining of his doublet and drew out a small, loosely bound notebook. A little writing might do a good job of distracting him from his idiot heart. He stretched his legs out before him, crossed at the ankle. The notebook he opened across one thigh, to page through the sketchy verse scrawled within and attempt to remember what he had been working on. </p><p>No sooner had he touched pencil to page, though, than Geralt spoke again. </p><p>“I also thought you might like it,” he said, squinting as he emptied what looked like tiny iron pellets into a round jar. </p><p>Jaskier opened his mouth, shut it again. Sucked his teeth, blinked at his handwriting, and then said, “A b… a bomb?” </p><p>“The view,” Geralt replied, plain.</p><p>“Ah,” Jaskier said, a third time, his highest-pitched syllable yet. Only detectable by dogs and, probably, witchers. </p><p>There went his concentration. </p><p>For a while he tried. Wrote and scratched out the same line several times, flipped back and looked over what he’d already written. Tried humming out the melody, since he’d left his lute back at the inn like a fool. None of it worked, as he just kept glancing up at Geralt and getting wildly distracted. Geralt didn’t seem to have an<em> inkling </em> of how confusing he was, of the emotional whiplash he’d delivered to Jaskier this morning. He just knelt there, stoically assembling artillery amongst the anemones and the heather like a perfectly normal person. </p><p>Finally Jaskier gave up, snapped the book shut, and tucked it back into his open jacket. He wouldn’t get any writing done but neither, he decided, would he sit and fret for a second time. </p><p>“We’re going full scorched earth, then?” he said. He wouldn’t fret… but he also wouldn’t push the issue. Talk about easy things, instead. Like murder.</p><p>“Never hurts to show up with a few options,” Geralt said. He was stoppering the flasks, pressing beeswax into the mouth of each with his thumb.</p><p>“An armload of explosives certainly seems like a… definitive option,” Jaskier said. Having made it this long without incident, he shuffled closer to the witcher again. Crouched just at the edge of the blanket, elbows on his knees, chin in hand. “Think it’ll take—” he counted quickly—“<em>Six </em>to kill a single, adolescent wyvern?”</p><p>“They aren’t all incendiary,” Geralt said. He touched three that were complete, a little cluster of dark clay jars with fat wicks poking out of the top. “Samum. For blinding. Good for a distraction so I can get in close.”</p><p>He held up the one in his hand, absolutely indistinguishable from the others. “Grapeshot,” he said. “For damage. A last resort. Don’t want to blow up any pigs or pig farms or pig <em> farmers </em> if I can avoid it.”</p><p>“You could blow up a <em> little </em> of his farm,” Jaskier said. He held up his hand, a hair’s breadth between thumb and forefinger. “Just a little.”</p><p>“Petty, Jaskier.”</p><p>“You can’t tell me he doesn’t deserve it.”</p><p>Geralt <em> hmm-</em>d, which wasn’t an accession, but neither was it a condemnation.</p><p>“How do you tell them apart?” Jaskier asked, as Geralt began putting everything back in his saddlebags. </p><p>“Wicks,” Geralt said. “Black for samum, white for grapeshot.”</p><p>“Clever.”</p><p>“Gotta be. Mixing up your explosives is the sort of mistake you only make once,” Geralt said. </p><p>Jaskier laughed, sudden and bright. “Learned some lessons the hard way, have we?”</p><p>Geralt stood, saddlebags in one hand and sack of bombs in the other. “Ask the barn.”</p><p> </p><p>In the afternoon, Geralt napped and Jaskier attempted, again, to write. Sitting against the headboard on the lumpy mattress, while Geralt lay beside him, facing away. Concentration proved an even more difficult task here than in the aspens, as partway through the day Geralt rolled over in his sleep and hooked an arm across Jaskier’s thighs. He shifted closer, tucking his face against Jaskier’s hip.</p><p>Idly, Jaskier smoothed a hand down Geralt’s back. Once over his shirt, then again, slipping his fingers beneath Geralt’s loosened collar to trail gently over scarred skin. Any tension left to the witcher's body drained away like wine from an unstoppered barrel, along with a quiet sigh. The arm across Jaskier’s lap grew heavier. </p><p>Leave it to Geralt to remain tense even in sleep.</p><p>Witchers naturally ran a few degrees cooler than humans, a side effect of their slow heartbeats. But Geralt’s skin was sun-warmed by the light streaming through the window. White hair seemed nearly gold in the afternoon light, and sleep had stolen the hardest angles of his face, left him peaceful. </p><p>“Such a tender thing you are,” Jaskier murmured, setting aside his pencil. He gazed down at Geralt, and thought it unfair that so few others would ever see this. The wolf at rest, unguarded and lovely. So few would know the truth of him. A smile, small and a little sad, pulled the corners of Jaskier’s lips. “No one would believe me, if I told them how soft the heart that beats in my wolf’s breast.”</p><p>Ah, there it was again.</p><p><em> My</em>.</p><p>How easily it came to him. </p><p>He wanted to stay, to slide down the bed and cradle the White Wolf to his chest and listen to his slow heartbeat. Kiss his brow and card fingers through his silver hair. Let him sleep, unburdened, for the rest of the day and the night.</p><p>But there was a wyvern in the orchards. Geralt had asked Jaskier to be sure he was up well before dusk—and there was something to that, Jaskier knew. That Geralt trusted him enough to <em> sleep</em>, and not just meditate in the corner half-awake. Jaskier wouldn’t betray that trust, not intentionally. There was a real risk, though, that if he were horizontal he would fall asleep himself, lulled by Geralt’s even breathing and warmth and… general soothing Geralt-ness.</p><p>So Jaskier remained upright. He continued writing with one hand, while the other remained occupied with tracing idle little patterns between Geralt’s shoulder blades.</p><p>A square of light from the window crept across the bed and up the wall as the afternoon wore on. When it reached the ceiling, and the sky outside tinted slowly orange, Jaskier woke the witcher.</p><p>Or tried to. A gentle nudge of his shoulder did nothing but make him press his face further into Jaskier’s hip, curl his fingers tighter into the cloth of Jaskier’s trousers.</p><p>“Things would be far less confusing if you were like this when you were awake,” Jaskier muttered, and shook Geralt harder. </p><p>The witcher scrunched up his eyebrows and rolled onto his back, scrubbed his hands over his face. He sat up with a groan, and looked at Jaskier with the squinty expression of one who’d slept so deeply they were no longer certain of the year. The side of his face was latticed with indentations that exactly matched the wrinkles in the sheets, and his hair stuck out.</p><p>Jaskier snorted, then clapped a hand over his mouth. Took it away again just long enough to ask, “Sleep well?”</p><p>“Too well,” Geralt grumbled, voice even huskier than usual. He rubbed a hand against his chest, looked to the window.</p><p>“You could probably have another hour,” Jaskier said. “It won’t be full dark for another three, probably.”</p><p>Geralt shook his head, and then yawned so widely his jaw cracked. </p><p>“Or maybe take the rest of the night, good gods.” Jaskier reached out and gently brushed the back of his hand over Geralt’s jaw. How could he not? The man looked like he’d just gotten his first real rest in months. “The world will keep turning if you get a full night’s sleep.”</p><p>Again Geralt shook his head, and heaved himself out of the bed, leaving Jaskier’s hand to fall back to the sheets.</p><p>“And if the wyvern chooses tonight to graduate from pigs to children?” he said, popping what sounded like every vertebra in his body as he rotated his shoulders. “Best to get it over with.”</p><p>“It probably won’t eat a <em> child </em>,” Jaskier said, but offered no further argument. Folding his legs under him, he flipped through his notes and pretended not to watch Geralt armor himself.</p><p>When Geralt was near done, quickly checking both swords before strapping them to his back, Jaskier slung himself out of the bed. He had one arm in his doublet when Geralt asked him what the hell it was he thought he was doing.</p><p>“Getting dressed.” Jaskier tugged on the other sleeve, began fastening the buttons. “Can’t very well go hunting in my undershirt, can I?”</p><p>“You aren’t coming,” Geralt said firmly. </p><p>Affronted, Jaskier dropped his hands to his hips. “Oh, I absolutely am coming with you,” he said. “I’ve been a part of every other bit of this… little adventure. I will not miss the climax.”</p><p>Geralt sighed, pressed thumb and forefinger into his eyes. Said wearily, “If I say no, you’re just going to show up in an hour anyway, aren’t you.”</p><p>Shrugging, nodding, Jaskier said, “Definitely, yes.”</p><p>“No lute.”</p><p>“But—”</p><p>“I swear, I will tie you to this bed, Jaskier.”</p><p>The bard smiled impishly. “Now really isn’t the time, darling.”</p><p>Geralt blinked slowly, his lips pressed into a thin, unamused line.</p><p>“Alright, alright,” Jaskier said, putting up his hands. “No lute.”</p><p>“And you stay well back,” Geralt added, jabbing a gloved finger at him. “I don’t need to worry about you getting underfoot.”</p><p>“Oh, trust me, Geralt, I have no desire to be mauled by a wyvern on a Temerian pig farm,” Jaskier said, scoffing. </p><p>“It’s not about what you desire, it’s about staying far enough away you don’t get bitten or stepped on. Or stabbed, or set on fire. Or—”</p><p>“Yes, yes, you’ve made yourself quite clear,” Jaskier said, grimacing. “You act as though I’m incapable of self preservation.”</p><p>“The djinn,” Geralt said, flat. </p><p>“We don’t need to split hairs,” Jaskier sniffed. “I’ll keep ten paces off at all times.”</p><p>Satisfied, Geralt took up his saddlebags and his swords, and started for the door. “Come on, bard, we’re burning daylight.”</p><p>With a last, mournful look at his lute, Jaskier shut the door behind them.</p><p> </p><p>A quick dinner and a leisurely ride brought them back to Tormund’s farm just at dusk. He very begrudgingly allowed them to tie their horses outside his home, when Jaskier approached leading both and Geralt remained out of sight. Somehow, Jaskier found it within himself to be polite, despite desperately wanting to spit in Tormund’s face when he grumbled about <em> mutants</em>. The audacity of this man, whose farm was about to be rescued from certain oblivion by the kindest witcher to ever grace the Continent. </p><p>Jaskier ruining the hunt before it even began might test the limits of that kindness, though, so he kept his mouth shut.</p><p>Jayne had procured for them a quarter-side of beef, which Geralt laid out at a far corner of the pig pens. When Jaskier made it back from dropping off the horses, Geralt was pouring something over the meat.</p><p>Bending down, Jaskier braced his hands on his knees. It was just dark enough that he had to squint to see the viscous fluid dripping from a vial in Geralt’s hand. “A little flavor, to pique the wyvern’s interest?”</p><p>“Poison,” Geralt said. </p><p>Jaskier straightened. “Delightful,” he murmured, vaguely nauseous.</p><p>“It’s mostly tallow and arenaria,” Geralt said, stoppering the little bottle and tucking it into some hidden pocket. “Draconids hate the stuff, makes them sick, but can’t smell it through the fat. Probably wouldn’t taste great, but wouldn’t kill <em> you</em>.”</p><p>“Oh, good, because I was really considering just getting down and taking a bite out of the raw beef lying on the ground in the pig pen,” Jaskier said. </p><p>Geralt easily hopped the fence back into the grass, a feat Jaskier took almost as spryly. Years on the road with a witcher had given him a decent amount of muscle, a fact that always surprised even himself. Long gone was the court-soft bard of his youth, replaced by a whippy sort of strength. </p><p>Even the witcher watched with some appreciation, nodding almost pridefully as Jaskier vaulted the waist-high rails. Jaskier merely tossed his head and breezed right by. </p><p>And then stopped, because he didn’t know where he was going.</p><p>Geralt was gracious enough to lead the way quietly, across the dirt road towards the orchard. He stepped down into the ditch beside the road, set down his sack of freshly built bombs, and…</p><p>Stretched out on his stomach in the grass. </p><p>“Oh, so we’re…we’re  just going to lie here,” Jaskier said, still standing in the road. “In a ditch. Like corpses.”</p><p>“Forgot the chaise back in Kaer Morhen, gotta make do,” Geralt said. “You can see if Tormund will let you in.”</p><p>“Mm… I’d rather lie in the ditch, thanks,” Jaskier said, carefully skidding down the short incline. He paused, patting his hands over the front of his doublet. It wasn’t <em> new </em> new, but new enough, and a light green, besides. It was like to stain terribly. “Might’ve dressed down a little, if I’d known.”</p><p>Still, he lowered himself to the ground. Despite the growing gloom, the ground was well warmed by the long day’s sun, making it far more comfortable than Jaskier would’ve anticipated. From their vantage point, they were able to just peek over the lip of the road. Jaskier could barely make out the fence, let alone the bait beyond. </p><p>“And now?” Jaskier asked.</p><p>“We wait,” Geralt said. “Quietly. It won’t show up if you’re making too much noise.”</p><p>“Right. Of course. Suspicious if someone with a sword is staring at your dinner and muttering before you get a chance to eat it.”</p><p>Geralt glanced aside, and his eyes caught the last of the light, gleaming like a cat’s. Sometimes, Jaskier forgot just how inhuman he was. “Starting now.”</p><p>The sky bled slowly from blue, to indigo, to a deep and unrelenting black. A sliver of moon peeking up over the trees did little to mitigate the darkness. Cricketsong rose to greet the night, which might’ve been pleasant if Jaskier could see anything beyond his own nose. At least it wasn’t cold.</p><p>Since he couldn’t see anyway, Jaskier pillowed his head on his arms and shut his eyes. Falling asleep didn’t seem much of a risk, with a rock biting awkwardly into his thigh. And the threat of a wyvern hurtling out of the darkness at any given moment, that kept him alert enough.</p><p>It occurred to him that even if the monster did make an appearance, Jaskier wouldn’t be able to <em> see </em> the kill. He’d be able to hear it, sure, but then he’d have to rely on Geralt for details. It would be no different than any other hunt, when Geralt just told him what happened later. Perhaps coming along had been a mistake, after all.</p><p>Then he rolled onto his back. </p><p>Without a campfire, far from city lights, and a nearly-new moon, the sky was… literally breathtaking. He couldn’t help the audible gasp that slipped from him, small and sharp.</p><p>“What?” Geralt murmured, eyes darting around the near landscape. “Are you alright?”</p><p>“Fine,” Jaskier breathed. “Wonderful, even. I haven’t seen stars like this in… ages. Maybe ever.”</p><p>A billion pinpricks of light wheeled overhead in a sea of deep, velvety blue. More stars than grains of sand on a beach, it seemed. Shot through with the opaque violet-and-gold ribbons of the via galactica, those high, distant clouds that weren’t clouds. Still and brilliant, somewhere far beyond their mortal plane.</p><p>Jaskier pointed towards a constellation of six stars, winking just brighter than their fellows. “There’s the river maiden. Which means…” he murmured, drawing a line northeast to another five, “There’s the prancing wolf. And beside him—”</p><p>“The chattering bard?” Geralt said, though not unkindly. </p><p>“The nightingale, actually,” Jaskier finished, rolling his eyes and smiling to himself. “So, same thing, really.”</p><p>“I didn’t realize you knew much astronomy,” Geralt said, a hushed whisper.</p><p>Jaskier lifted his head, squinting at the dim ghost of Geralt. His normal voice seemed especially loud in the darkness. “You didn’t… Do you know what the seven liberal arts <em> are </em>?”</p><p>“Arts,” Geralt said, a hiss. “And there are seven of them. Quiet, <em> please</em>.”</p><p>Resettling on his back, Jaskier pouted at the stars. “Honestly, I learn everything you deign to tell me about witchering, and yet it’s like you hardly know me at all,” he whispered, only half-mocking in his indignance.</p><p>Geralt sighed, shook his head. Let the silence stretch on for a few minutes, before something gnawed at him enough to break it himself. “Tell me, then,” he said, so softly it could’ve been the wind. “About your seven arts.”</p><p>“Now?” Jaskier asked, certain he’d misheard. “Won’t it scare away your quarry?”</p><p>Geralt looked towards Tormund’s, where candles still burned in two of the windows. Someone, a daughter by the height of the torch, was walking between the barn and the house.  In the other direction, perhaps a mile down the road but visible, lit windows in another farmhouse. This wyvern had been clever enough not to be seen yet, there was a good chance it was clever enough to wait for lights to go out.</p><p>“Do it softly,” Geralt said. </p><p>“I can do that.”</p><p>Jaskier shifted closer, til the sides of his thighs brushed against Geralt’s, his shoulder against the witcher’s ribs. “Is this alright?” Jaskier asked, barely a whisper. His cheek rested lightly on Geralt’s arm.</p><p>Geralt nodded, realized Jaskier might not be able to see him, and said a quiet, “Yes.” With witcher hearing, Jaskier could’ve been speaking with his lips directly against Geralt’s ear. Still, he propped his chin on his fist, leaned just a little closer to the bard’s hushed words.</p><p>“There’s the trivium,” Jaskier started, counting them off on his fingers. “Grammar, rhetoric, and logic. Meant entirely to make one a stronger debater of the great philosophical questions, so those halls are full of blustery old men winding themselves in circles about the same six topics.”</p><p>“Not your favorite?” Geralt asked.</p><p>“Only insofar as grammar and rhetoric can make for better wordplay,” Jaskier replied, shrugging as best he could while lying on the ground. “I far prefer the quadrivium. Astronomy, arithmetic, geometry and, of course, the greatest subject of them all, without which life would simply be meaningless: music.”</p><p>Jaskier carried on at length, whispering about the minutia of his time at Oxenfurt, the rigorous work that went into his brief and bright academic career. Most students, he explained, chose to focus on the trivium or the quadrivium exclusively. Jaskier, seeking glory and also to spend as much of his father’s coin as he possibly could in the shortest amount of time without dying, went for all seven at the same time. </p><p>“I don’t think I slept for three years,” he said, with a quiet laugh. “I was drinking, or studying. Usually both.”</p><p>After a while he slowed, pauses growing longer between sentences, voice fading to almost nothing. Words finally wound down into even breathing, deep and slow, and Jaskier was asleep. Soon after, the hearthfire banked in Tormund’s house, as well in the house down the road. Even the pigs bedded down, and the fields and the orchard went still and quiet as though at rest.</p><p>The world slept, and Geralt waited. </p><p> </p><p>Dawn came pink and clear and quiet. A handful of crows circled down from the thin clouds to pick over the untouched meat, croaking and flapping at one another. Geralt let the sun creep a little higher, in a vain hope that something larger might follow the birds out of the sky.</p><p>No such luck. The sun squeaked over the fields behind Tormund’s house, burning away the dew. He’d guessed wrong. Very wrong, by the lack of commotion anywhere nearby.</p><p>Jaskier jerked awake as soon as Geralt moved, the bard flinging himself to a sitting position.</p><p>“Is it here?” he demanded, bleary with sleep. Twisting to look at the bait, he asked, “Did I miss it?”</p><p>“Never showed,” Geralt said, pushing slowly to his feet. Lying on the ground had been unkind to his joints, every one of them creaking and complaining as he stood and stretched.</p><p>Without looking he offered a hand down to Jaskier, who took it and delicately rose to his feet. Bright eyed and rosy-cheeked, Geralt wouldn’t have guessed Jaskier spent the night in a ditch if he hadn’t been right there alongside.</p><p>“Come back tonight, I suppose?” Jaskier said, starting up to the road. Geralt remained a step behind, a hand hovering near the small of Jaskier’s back, in case the bard should slip on dewy grass.</p><p>“No,” Geralt said, taking the incline in two long strides. “Go back to town, find out if it made an appearance anywhere else. Then…” He blew out a weary, resigned sigh. “Look for it in the orchard, I guess.”</p><p>“After a meal and a nap, I hope,” Jaskier said. He patted his stomach. “I’m positively wasting away.”</p><p>“If we start now, we might make it in time for Jayne to feed us,” Geralt said. “Go get the horses. I’ve got to figure out something to do with this meat.”</p><p>Jaskier trudged off down the road, a humming tune carried in his wake. Geralt climbed the fence, scattering the crows with a clap and gruff <em> fuck off</em>. He hefted the beef-side, wrinkled his nose at the smell. Not quite rotten, yet, but getting there, after a night out in the summer warmth. For a moment he considered just tossing into the orchard, letting the crows have their fill, but hauled it to the pigs instead. Tormund might be a dick, but a sow had never given Geralt a hard time. Let them gorge.</p><p>Not too long later, Jaskier returned astride his little grey, Roach ambling along beside. </p><p>“They didn’t want to leave, the traitors,” Jaskier said, face pinched in melodramatic distaste. He tossed Geralt the reins. “The girls were feeding them strawberries from their garden.”</p><p>Geralt laughed, as Roach pushed her heavy head into his chest. “Were they spoiling you?” he asked fondly, patting the horse’s neck with a satisfying thump. Kissing Roach on her broad brow, he said, “Sorry I don’t have any fruit.”</p><p>“I know where you could find some,” Jaskier said, putting a conspiratorial hand over his mouth. He jerked his chin towards the orchard, waggling his eyebrows.</p><p>They started down the road, Geralt choosing to walk and lead Roach by her tack. He needed the stretch, after lying so still for so long. Where the ditch ended and the trees grew closer to the road, he plucked an apple from a low-hanging branch and tossed it up to Jaskier. The bard caught it, leaning just a little too far. His horse tossed her head and danced sideways, houghing. </p><p>“Sorry, old girl,” Jaskier said, leaning down to pat her shoulder. She blew another breath, bit rattling in her teeth, nervously flicking her tail.</p><p>“Skittish?” Geralt asked, reaching up to take another passing apple.</p><p>Jaskier frowned, gave a gentle tug on the reins to slow his horse. “Not usually.”</p><p>“Share your apple with her, you miser,” Geralt said, grinning.</p><p>Then Roach pulled at her tack, stomping a heavy hoof, shying away from the treeline. “Whoa, whoa,” Geralt soothed, tightening his grip on the reins, offering the apple. “There’s nothing—”</p><p>He caught the scent, then. Faint, beneath the smell of pig shit and fallen apples. Something sharp and cloying, acrid at the edges, vinegar and burnt flowers. He dropped Roach’s reins, backed up a step, searching the branches of the apple tree.</p><p>An eye, huge and round and red, stared out from the shade. Blinked once, accompanied by a low, trilling hiss. Geralt looked up, up, up, to see the shape of it wound tight through the canopy. Camouflaged, feathers and scales the same dappled green-and-yellow as the leaves around its sinuous body. Leaves that rattled and shook as the creature uncoiled.</p><p>“<em>Shit,</em>” Geralt breathed, a long sibilant hiss. He took a slow step back, hoping, praying, that it wouldn’t strike without provocation.</p><p>“Find half a worm?” Jaskier asked, and the beast exploded from the foliage in a shower of fruit and leaves.</p><p>“Go, Jaskier!” Geralt  snarled, too late. The grey mare screamed and threw her rider, galloping down the road at full speed. Jaskier hit the dirt with a grunt and a curse, rolling away to lay terribly still.</p><p>“Shit, <em> fuck</em>,” Geralt spat, scrambling across to the fallen bard. Skidding to his knees in a cloud of dust, he clutched at the back of Jaskier’s jacket, ready to drag him off the road. The shadow of the monster passed over them again, leathery wings spread wide.</p><p>“You have to get up!” Geralt plead, desperate. Relief flooded him when Jaskier groaned—<em>I’m fine—</em>and tried to stand. Squinting into the bright morning sky, the witcher could make out only a silhouette wheeling high above.</p><p>It shrieked, then, a cockrel’s crow from the depths of hell. </p><p>“That’s why it didn’t eat any fucking chickens,” Geralt said, a growl of terrible recognition.</p><p>Jaskier, dazed, blood streaking the side of his face, stumbled upright. “Chickens?” he said, breathless, listing closer to Geralt as he squinted up at the thing. “Picky eaters, wyverns?”</p><p>Silver sang free of the scabbard, flashing brilliant. “Not a wyvern.”</p><p>The cockatrice dove.</p><p>Wings tucked tight to its serpentine body, it hurtled towards them, screaming. Geralt planted himself in front of the bard, sword arm caging Jaskier back against the treeline. At the last possible moment, when the cockatrice was close enough to count the spots upon its comb, Geralt roared and thrust his free hand forward. </p><p>Pure force exploded outwards, a shockwave through the grass and dust. With another hellish scream the cockatrice was thrown backwards into the fence, landing in a spray of wooden shards. On its back in the pens, taloned feet lashing at the air above, the cockatrice squealed and thrashed and tried to right itself.</p><p>Geralt wouldn’t give it the chance. He charged through shattered fenceposts, silver sword whistling as it cut the air. The cockatrice, flapping madly, slid sideways in the dirt, catching just the tip of Geralt's sword. A thin, silver-blistering line split the beast’s soft belly, only deep enough to enrage it.</p><p>In a storm of wings and claws the cockatrice flipped over, screeching its high, tortured rooster calls. Stalking a wide semicircle, the thing postured and hissed, wary of the glint of silver.</p><p>Matching it step for undulating step, Geralt circled slowly. The beast lashed out, a crack of a clawed wing, and Geralt dodged easily back. He wasn’t easy prey, and the cockatrice hackled. Made itself look even bigger than it was, flaring its neck feathers, lashing its tail, hoping to frighten away this new enemy. </p><p>“Come on!” Geralt snarled, beating a fist against his breast. He needed to keep its attention, lest it try for easier prey. Darting forward, he slashed at the beast. It skipped backwards, awkward on the ground but no less dangerous as it struck again.</p><p>This blow landed, claws catching in studded leather and pulling Geralt nearly to the ground. </p><p>“<em>Geralt</em>!” Jaskier cried, far too close.</p><p>“Fucking run!” Geralt barked, striking the cockatrice on the side of its hideous rooster’s head with a fist. It spat and sputtered, beak snapping a hair’s breadth from the witcher’s thigh. If this fool fucking bard got himself eaten—</p><p>“Where are the bombs?” Jaskier demanded.</p><p>Or maybe he could be useful.</p><p>He whipped his sword up in time to knock away a wicked beak, and called, “With Roach!”</p><p>Jaskier, leaning heavily against a still-standing fencepost, levered off of it. He pivoted in place, looking both ways along the road for the horses. His mare was long gone, but Roach, stalwart thing she was, had only gone a few paces off the road into the orchard. </p><p>Limping as fast as he could—he’d landed on his face and his hip, and both throbbed with each stumbling step he took—Jaskier ran for Roach. She shied away, eyes rolling like great glass marbles in her head. Putting up his hands, Jaskier hushed and soothed, though the scent of blood and fear didn’t help.</p><p>“Roach, love, come on, it’s me,” he said, calmly as he could. Roach danced backwards, not quite rearing. “We’ve got to help him, yeah? It’s alright, sweet heart, just a moment and then you can bolt.”</p><p>Quick as a snake he caught her tack, and she pulled once, then settled. “There’s our girl,” Jaskier breathed, scurrying around the broad sides of the horse to heavy-laden saddlebags.</p><p>Across the road, a shriek from the beast and roar from the witcher, thunderous and wild. Jaskier dug as quickly as he could through the bags, finding his quarry in the third. The cloth sack of bombs clinked and rattled like Jaskier’s nerves as he sprinted back towards the pens.</p><p>Blood gleamed red along the length of Geralt’s blade and stained his white hair, splattered across the dirt in a wide arc. On the flank of the cockatrice, a matching, gaping gash. </p><p>“Gottem!” Jaskier crowed, as much for the monster as the bombs. Then, “Which do you want?”</p><p>“Samum,” Geralt growled, and charged. The wound didn’t seem to hinder the cockatrice at all, as it flowed around Geralt like a fish through water. It snapped at his ankles, his shoulders, lightning fast. “Aim for the head!”</p><p>Rather than search its depths, Jaskier upended the sack into the grass. “Ah, fuck—white for samum?” he muttered, wracking his jangled memory for what Geralt had told him not a full day before. “No, gods, what—samum, blinding, black! Black for samum!”</p><p>Snatching a black-wicked bomb from the pile, Jaskier sprang to his feet.</p><p>He stared at it blankly for a long second, then looked up to find Geralt delivering a savage kick to the same flank he’d already cut.  </p><p>“How do I light it?!” </p><p>Geralt’s head snapped up, just long enough to spot Jaskier holding up an unlit bomb. The aard had taken most of his meager reserves, but still he threw out a hand, praying for a thin thread of power. He only needed a little, a spark of igni.</p><p>“Oh, hey!” Jaskier exclaimed, almost delighted, when the wick caught. “I forget you can do that!”</p><p>“<em>THROW IT! </em>”</p><p>“Oh, fuck, right!” Winding back as far as he could, Jaskier threw it in a high, swift arc.</p><p>Geralt whirled away, throwing an arm up to shield his own eyes. If Jaskier aimed true, this should be enough to end it. Blind the thing and kill it quick.</p><p>It hit the cockatrice in the ass.</p><p>Jaskier, arm still outstretched, winced at the brilliant flash of light and harmless spray of dust across the beast’s back end. “Uh, Geralt? I missed!” </p><p>“I fucking noticed!” </p><p>The cockatrice also fucking noticed. It squealed as saltpeter coated the wound in its side, and reared back, wings beating the air with enough force to send Geralt sprawling. Wheeling around, the cockatrice charged this new threat, hop-bounding on wings and legs.</p><p>Geralt clambered to his feet, sprinting after the beast as it bore down on Jaskier. Not fast enough—but the bard had the good sense to throw himself sideways rather than straight back. He was sent tumbling ass over tits as the cockatrice blew by, catching him with just the tip of a wing, but he remained unharmed.</p><p>The cockatrice collided with the orchard, unable to cease its forward momentum. It stumbled and shook its head, dazed, and Geralt was on it in an instant. With both hands, he brought his sword down on its spine. The blade bit into flesh but skittered off of bone, wedged beneath an armored scale and stuck there. </p><p>With a scream that shook the trees, the cockatrice tried to pull away. It swung around, and Geralt, still holding his sword, went with it. Before he could let go he was slammed into a tree, the wind knocked from his lungs, head ringing hard against the wood. The impact jarred the sword loose, but he had no time to bring it to bear.</p><p>Whipping around, the cockatrice pinned him. The claws of a wing rammed into his chest, vicious beak closing on his throat where it met his shoulder. Teeth—who the fuck gave it a beak <em> and </em> teeth?—sliced through leather like nothing, sank deep into the flesh beneath.</p><p>Pain lanced through his body, searing worse than a simple bite. The cockatrice worried at him, tearing deeper, scraping over his clavicle and shoulder blade. More of that white-hot agony, like touching a hot iron, and his heart beat faster, and he remembered.</p><p>Cockatrice were venomous.</p><p>He was distantly aware of Jaskier yelling as his vision started to tunnel. A huge, blood red eye blinked just an inch from Geralt’s face as the cockatrice gnawed him like a dog’s toy. He jammed his thumb into it, snarling as it burst in a spray of blood and viscous fluid. </p><p>The cockatrice didn’t let go, as he’d hoped. It bit down harder, loosed a howl muffled and gurgling through Geralt’s blood and flesh. He pushed his thumb further into the ruined eye socket, and it screamed louder, and threw him. Ripped him sideways and tossed him across the road like a ragdoll. His sword flew from deadened fingers, skittered somewhere far out of reach. </p><p>A noise too wet and ragged and angry to be human rattled from Geralt’s burning lungs as he shoved gracelessly to his feet, every movement slow and painful. The cockatrice thrashed and scrambled after him, and he took some grim satisfaction in the way its legs struggled to find purchase. That spinal blow had fucked it good—may it suffer and die like he would.</p><p>He didn’t know where Jaskier was, but could still hear him. Smell his blood and fear. Too close, he was too close, he’d promised ten paces off at all times.</p><p>“Jaskier, run!” Geralt bellowed, hurling himself once more at the monster. It met him, outmatched him, a pair of dying beasts rolling in the dirt. The cockatrice, just enough strength left to it to overpower, slammed a broad talon to Geralt’s gambeson. Something splintered deep in his chest, his armor pierced at hip and armpit. Another thin veneer of pain layered atop the rest of it.</p><p>Little strength remained to him, but still Geralt reached up, clawed at the creature’s eyes ruined and good alike. Blood and acid splattered in great, thick strings from slavering jaws. Pinned, the cockatrice mantling its wings over his body, Geralt roared, mutinous and feral.</p><p>It was a fitting end. A witcher’s end. </p><p>But it would not be quiet.</p><p> </p><p>A wolf should not die alone in sunlight. It’s an unfair end, blood seeping slowly into dry, cracked earth, poison sluggish in his veins. Bones left to bleach in the summer heat, picked clean by carrion birds, forgotten and unmourned. This would not be the way Geralt of Rivia dies, Jaskier decided. Not when there was still a big fucking sword at hand.</p><p>The silver blade had landed just a pace away from Jaskier, and he scrabbled for it now. Heaved himself to his feet and snatched up the sword as he passed. Stumbled, needing both hands.</p><p>“Gods, this thing is heavy,” he breathed, and ran. </p><p>Never in his life had he moved so fast, carried on the wings of adrenaline and fear and pure, seething rage. It didn’t see him coming, too preoccupied with its prey. Swinging two-handed over his head, just as Geralt had done, Jaskier howled with every fiber of his being and brought the sword down.</p><p>It was a wild blow, unpracticed and askew, but the sheer weight of it snapped the cockatrice’s wingbone like a hollow twig. The crack of it echoed through the orchard, rang off the farmhouses. </p><p>Shocked, agonized, the cockatrice stumbled backwards. The broken wing hung lip, dragging a furrow in the dirt road as it retreated. It was slowing, dying, but still it lunged. A clumsy thing that Jaskier still only just dodged. He brought the sword up on instinct, defensive, and the cockatrice caught its own throat on the edge of the blade. Blood sprayed hot across Jaskier’s arms, flecking his face. </p><p>The cockatrice collapsed, ragged breaths wheezing through its ruined throat. Still it snapped, still it clawed, and Jaskier could not abide. He snarled like a beast himself, staggering forward, lifting the sword point-down.</p><p>Throwing all his weight against the crossbar, the bloody bard drove his blade into the cockatrice’s remaining eye. It wailed, and it writhed, and it fucking <em> died. </em></p><p>Trembling, chest heaving, Jaskier sagged against the upright sword. He rested his brow against cool silver, let it hold him up like a crutch. He had not the strength to pull it free from the cockatrice’s skull, wasn’t even certain his knees would bear him if he let go of it.</p><p>Then, behind him, a groan, thin and reedy. Swallowing against rising bile, Jaskier half-turned, found Geralt struggling vainly to stand. The witcher made it as far as his hands and knees before his elbows gave out, crumpling to the ground in a bleeding heap.</p><p>Stumbling, nearly falling, Jaskier pushed away from the dead cockatrice and went to his knees at Geralt’s side. Hands hovering uselessly over too many wounds, Jaskier could only blink against tears and murmur <em> no, no, no, </em>a litany of hopelessness.</p><p>“Brave idiot,” Geralt rasped, eyes unfocused as they found Jaskier’s. </p><p>“So I am,” Jaskier said, finally settling shaky fingers against Geralt’s stomach and along his jaw. He thumbed through blood and dust, following a sharp cheekbone. “Killed it, though, didn’t I?”</p><p>Pride lit those bleary golden eyes. “Told you to go.”  </p><p>“And then you’d be dead, and how’s that better?” Jaskier chided, sniffling.</p><p>“I’m dead anyway,” Geralt said, with a shuddering laugh that turned to an agonized wheeze.</p><p>Jaskier shook his head, silent, throat constricting awfully. “Someone will come,” he said, choked, looking up. No movement at Tormund’s, or at the house down the road. Surely they must have heard the battle—but they were all farmers, not warriors. They must all be cowering under their beds, like smart folk. He hollered anyway, poured all his bardic training into it, projecting a mournful cry for aid across the empty fields. <em> Help us, anyone, he’s dying!  </em></p><p>“Someone will come,” he repeated, softer, because he could not give up. He’d slain a monster, for Melitele’s sake, anything was possible.</p><p>“No one’s coming,” Geralt said, soft and soothing even as his blood poured lazily into the road. “It’s alright.”</p><p>“It bloody fucking isn’t alright, is it?” Jaskier snapped, tears clearing tracks through the grime on his cheeks. “Not if you die.”</p><p>“Witchers die all the time.” Geralt grit his teeth, sucked a harsh breath as pain surged fresh within him. Panting shallowly, he wound weak fingers in the front of Jaskier’s shirt. “Jaskier, I need—”</p><p>“I’m here,” Jaskier said, barely more than a wretched sob. He cradled Geralt’s face in his hands, his skin cold and pale. “Geralt, my wolf, my witcher,” he murmured, weak and beseeching, pressing close as a lover. </p><p>“Take Roach,” Geralt said, the hand on Jaskier’s chest tightening. Somehow, through the pain and the encroaching darkness, he spoke with thready conviction. “Take Roach, and go to Kaer Morhen. She knows the way through the Killer.”</p><p>With fingers blood-slick and clumsy, Geralt pawed at the medallion on his chest til he found purchase, and yanked. The chain snapped, and under everything else he hardly noticed the bite of it against the back of his neck. “Bring this to—to Vesemir,” he said, pleading, pressing the silver wolf’s head into Jaskier’s sternum. “Please, Jaskier.”</p><p>“Of course,” Jaskier said, gently taking the medallion. Sharp edges bit into his palm, but he gripped it tight. “I’m sorry,” he said, though for what he didn’t know. For living. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Don’t,” Geralt breathed, and the tension began to slip from his shoulders. That was bad, probably, but the pain was fading, which was alright. He smiled, and touched the blood smeared across Jaskier’s temple. “Red's your color, my bloody bard,” he rasped, and weakly shook his head. “Wish I’d stayed in bed with you, yesterday.”</p><p>His throat went dry, the iron taste of blood fading, and he knew it was close. “Sing for me,” Geralt murmured, tired. So very tired.</p><p>Jaskier gathered Geralt close, rocked him gently. He could do this last thing, and gladly. “Any requests?”</p><p>“Anything but <em> Toss a Coin</em>,” Geralt grumbled fondly, growing heavier by the moment.</p><p>Jaskier laughed, watery and small. Laid his cheek against the witcher's brow, and started to hum the first thing that came to mind. A wordless tune, the very same beginnings of a lullaby he’d played for Geralt the last time they’d lain together. Slow, and sad, and sweet.</p><p>Too soon, too soon, the White Wolf went slack. His head lolled back, and Jaskier’s song petered out. Finally he gave in to weeping, clinging to the last few beats of Geralt’s tempered heart. “<em>Not like this</em>,” he sobbed, kissing the witcher’s brow, his cheeks, his cold lips. “Someone will come, my wolf, I promise. Someone will come for us.”</p><p>And someone came.</p><p> </p><p>He woke to the smell of bread. Bread, and clean linen, and rain. When he opened his eyes, slow and gluey, he found rafters painted with colorful flowers. A folding screen adorned with the same painted blooms hid him from the rest of the room. The window overhead was shuttered, but through the slats he could see a sliver of grey sky. Hushed voices spoke somewhere on the other side of the screen, pleasant beneath the patter of rain on thatch.</p><p>Either the afterlife looked just like the ealdorwoman’s house, or Geralt, somehow, had survived the river of cockatrice venom poured into his veins. </p><p>Survived, but not yet escaped. His limbs were slow to respond, heavy, like he was encased in mud. And he <em> ached</em>, his whole body buffeted by a dull, insistent throb. He managed to sit, to swing his traitorous legs over the edge of the bed. It would take him a moment to find the strength to stand, he knew, so instead he took stock. </p><p>Gingerly he touched the bite marks across his neck and shoulder, and found they had been expertly stitched. As had the punctures in his sides, so neatly closed they might not even scar. His chest was a wash of faded bruising, mostly gone to green and yellow. By the state of his injuries, half-healed with a witcher’s mutated speed, he must’ve been down a few days. </p><p>Geralt stood, stiff muscles protesting the action. Once on his feet, he could see through the latticed top of the screen. Jayne and Jaskier sat at the little window table, both sideways in their chairs, their backs against the wall. The bard had his lute across his lap, but did not play. On the table between them lay the remains of a meal. </p><p>Two halting steps and he swayed on his feet, had to reach out and grasp the screen or risk pitching face-first into the floorboards. It rattled, wood on wood, and the conversation ceased.</p><p>“You look like death,” Jayne said.</p><p>“Feel like it, too,” Geralt replied, words scraping through a dry throat. </p><p>Jaskier only stared, silent for a long while. His lips parted like he might speak, but no words came. Only a quiet, choked “<em>Oh</em>,” a single breathy sound.</p><p>“Hungry?” Jayne asked, pushing to her feet. “Three days without food, be a shame if you survived a battle just to starve to death.”</p><p>“Three days?” Geralt repeated. His head felt like it might float off his shoulders.</p><p>“Aye,” Jayne said, with a nod. She bustled around the kitchen, retrieving a clean plate. “Thought it might just be the one and I’d have a dead witcher in my bed. But here you are.”</p><p>“I’m sorry to have put you out,” Geralt said, unsure what else to say. Jaskier was still staring at him like he’d seen a wraith. </p><p>“Least I could do, you nearly croaking to save our farms and all,” Jayne said, with an airy wave of her hand. “My neighbor Rella, the one with the ox got taken? Stayed with her. Now go sit, you look like you’re going to collapse.”</p><p>Geralt nodded, and made it a further two steps before his vision greyed and he stumbled. With nothing to catch himself on he thought for sure he’d hit the floor this time, but a gentle hand braced against his belly, a narrow shoulder that smelled of rosewater tucked up under his chin.</p><p>Jaskier. </p><p>He’d finally moved.</p><p>“Maybe back to bed, hm?” Jaskier said softly, steering Geralt back the way he’d come. </p><p>The witcher let himself be led, too bone-tired and achy to protest. He sat heavily when his knees met the bedframe, the wood creaking ominously under his weight. Jaskier stood between his knees, and Geralt sagged forward to lean his head against the bard’s stomach. He had no words, wanted only to linger in the warmth and the familiar smell of Jaskier, as he thought he never would again.</p><p>The bard, thankfully, always had word enough for both of them, and then some.</p><p>“You could’ve just called for someone, you stubborn ass,” Jaskier said, laying an affectionate hand on the back of Geralt’s neck. “If you’d fallen we’d have had to leave you there on the floor, you know. You’re far too heavy to just pick up.”</p><p>Geralt only <em> hmm</em>’d, less a noise and more a rumbling deep in his battered chest.</p><p>Jaskier leaned aside. There came a stringy thump, the soft sound of a lute being set down, and then the bard’s other hand smoothed over Geralt’s hair. “Lie down, wolf. You’ve done enough.”</p><p>It took little urging to ease him sideways, and he sank back into the pillows and blessed, comforting darkness.</p><p> </p><p>When next he woke, the rain had ceased. A fat tallow candle on the bedside table offered the only light, the house beyond silent and black. The window was open to a starry sky, a crescent moon half-hidden by wispy clouds. Music, the quiet, familiar plucking of an elven lute, drifted through the night. Still he ached, but lesser, more distant. His head was clearer, his joints no longer felt packed in wool. </p><p>He tilted his face towards the music, and found Jaskier close. He’d drug a chair over, and sat with his feet propped up on the edge of the bed. The song he played was not one Geralt recognized. Something entirely new, by the way Jaskier squinted into the middle distance, pencil balanced on his ear. Composing. </p><p>Geralt watched for a long while. Listened to Jaskier play a few bars, pause, play them again but just a little faster. The bard shook his head, wrinkled his nose, and slid the pencil from behind his ear. He leaned towards the notebook open on the end table, but noticed the golden glint of witcher eyes.</p><p>“Well good evening,” he said, smiling slowly. </p><p>“Evening,” Geralt replied, levering himself upright. He had sense enough not to try to stand again, choosing instead to lean back against the wall. </p><p>Jaskier set aside his lute, rose to his feet. “How are you feeling?” </p><p>“A bit like I got mauled by a cockatrice,” Geralt said. </p><p>“Oh, is that what it was?” The mattress dipped as Jaskier sat, perching himself a deliberate distance away. “I thought it was odd, a chicken-shaped wyvern. Well, vaguely chicken-shaped. If chickens had been crafted by a vengeful god.”</p><p>Geralt couldn’t quite bring himself to banter, yet. He felt strange, beyond the bruises and the residual poison in his veins. Like he was floating just to the left of his own body. He looked down at his hands, scarred and calloused. “Why am I alive?” </p><p>Jaskier blinked at him, then shrugged and said breezily, “Why are any of us? This is a question for the Philospher’s Hall, I think, Geralt, and you now know my feelings on the trivium.”</p><p>“Jaskier.”</p><p>The bard sighed. “Luck,” he said, looking as though he’d like to be anywhere else. “Stupid, blind luck. Our dear friend Tormund’s late wife was the local wise woman, and she taught her daughters well. They came sprinting across the field with a sack of their mother’s tools. The little one stitched and the older one stuffed you full of potions and herbs and Melitele knows what else. Something must have worked, because… well. Here you are.”</p><p>Geralt, disbelieving, could only say, “Lucky they have a more charitable view of witchers.”</p><p>“Apparently,” Jaskier said slowly, “it’s because they liked Roach so much.”</p><p>“Hm.”</p><p>“Tormund, curse and bless the fucker, at least helped me get you onto Roach so he ‘could be free of witchers and wyverns forever.’ Had the absolute gall to complain about his broken fence the whole time,” Jaskier said. He grimaced with distaste. “And he was still talking about it when I went back to get your sword. Anna and Luce, though. Angels. I assume they take after their departed mother.”</p><p>Geralt was quiet for a time, mulling over Jaskier’s story. That he lived by the grace of a dead wise woman’s daughters who’d taken a shine to his horse was… indescribably stupid luck, the bard was right about that. </p><p>“It was dicey, for a while,” Jaskier continued, a little strained. “Jayne took you in, because the innkeep didn’t want anyone dying in his establishment. That first day, I thought for sure…” </p><p>He swallowed, looked away. “It doesn’t matter. You’re obviously alright.”</p><p>“I’m alright,” Geralt agreed softly. Resting a hand on Jaskier’s knee, he squeezed gently. “Are you?”</p><p>Jaskier patted the back of Geralt’s hand, and shrugged with a nonchalance so profoundly fake it was visible from Nilfgaard. “I’m well enough,” he said. He pushed his hair back from his forehead to reveal a fading bruise and a narrow cut over his left brow. “In fact, if I’m lucky, this’ll scar and lend legitimacy to the story when I tell people I slew a cockatrice.”</p><p>Narrowing his eyes, stifling a smile, Geralt said, “Isn’t that from falling off your horse?”</p><p>“While killing a monster, yes,” Jaskier said loftily.</p><p>Geralt laughed, and winced at the way it jostled his abused body. He put a hand to his chest, a vain attempt to soothe the ache. </p><p>“Oh!” Jaskier said suddenly, and hooked two fingers into the collar of his shirt. Silver glinted in the candlelight as he drew the thin chain over his head, the wolf’s head swinging at the end of it. “The farrier had to fix the clasp, so it might be a bit shorter, but. Here.”</p><p>Geralt’s hand halted halfway up. “The… farrier?” </p><p>“Well, didn’t think I’d have time to go to Vizima and find a jeweller, did I?” Jaskier said, and jiggled the chain. “You were going to need it back, and you broke the damn thing in your dramatics. The farrier had a hammer.”</p><p>Taking the necklace, Geralt put it on, immediately set at ease by the familiar weight of it against his sternum. The medallion was warmed by Jaskier’s skin, and some part of the witcher hoped it would remain so. “Thank you.”</p><p>Jaskier inclined his head, and said nothing.</p><p>Close as Jaskier was, now, Geralt could see the bruise-dark circles under his eyes, the exhaustion pinching his lips and slumping his shoulder. “I’ve been here,” he said, tentatively, “And Jayne with her neighbor. Where have you been sleeping, Jaskier?”</p><p>Another, smaller shrug, and a crooked little smile. “I… haven’t been, really.”</p><p>Geralt nodded. “Feather bed,” he said, patting the mattress next to his hip. </p><p>“Oh, is it?” Jaskier said. “Must be lovely.”</p><p>“Lie down and find out,” Geralt said, shifting sideways to make room. </p><p>Hesitating, Jaskier looked warily at Geralt’s battered body. “Are you sure?” he asked, quiet. “I don’t want—”</p><p>“Please,” Geralt murmured.</p><p>Jaskier only nodded, standing to shrug out of his doublet and kick off his boots. Blowing out the candle left the room in watery moonlight. He meant to simply lie next to Geralt, too afraid to touch him, yet. Too worried this was some prolonged dream, and if he closed his eyes, when he opened them again he'd be lying in a ruined pig pen cradling a dead witcher.</p><p>But Geralt reached for him as he slid into the bed, and Jaskier had never been very good at resisting him—not that he ever tried all that hard. Cautiously he pillowed his head against Geralt’s chest, laid an arm across his middle. He closed his eyes, and pressed a little closer, and fell asleep to the rhythm of a witcher-slow hearbeat. </p><p> </p><p>Geralt refused his payment. </p><p>“Give it to Tormund,” he said, pushing the purse back into Jayne’s hands. “For his fence. And his daughters. A week’s worth of meals and a bed are payment enough.”</p><p>Jayne shrugged, but didn’t insist. She tucked the coins back into a pocket in her apron, and said, “Long as I’m kicking, you’ll have a place to say when you pass through. You too, bard.”</p><p>Despite his distaste for Geralt’s fit of philanthropy, Jaskier managed a smile and a bow. “Thank you, ealdorwoman, your hospitality has been without match. I shall sing your praises for all to know.”</p><p>“I’d thank you to not do that,” Jayne laughed. “Rather it stay quiet around here.”</p><p>She fed them one last time, and sent them each with their own parcel of food when they left. It was a quiet walk out of town, leading their horses by the reins. The early-morning warmth promised another sweltering afternoon, likely one of the last of the summer. Autumn was coming, harbinged by a single maple at the edge of town turning prematurely red.</p><p>Parting had always been an inevitable facet of their long friendship, the itinerant nature of their respective professions. Sometimes it was quick and easy, a wave and a breezy goodbye. And sometimes they lingered, a few more stolen moments before duty drew them apart.</p><p>“I might’ve been wrong,” Jaskier said, when they reached the fork in the road.</p><p>“Probably,” Geralt said, stopping at Jaskier’s side. “About what?”</p><p>Jaskier scowled playfully, and said, “About your chances at marrying into the village life here. Between you and me, I don’t think Jayne’s neighbor is<em> just </em>her neighbor.”</p><p>“Only you could find the gossip in a village with five buildings,” Geralt said. </p><p>“It isn’t gossip, it is merely observation. I went over there once, while you were sleeping,” Jaskier said. “Rella <em> also </em> only had one bed.”</p><p>“I see,” Geralt said, looking aside at Roach. “Well, I hope they’re happy.”</p><p>“Seemed like.” Jaskier scuffed his boot against the road, suspecting he already knew the answer when he asked, “So. Where are you off to?"</p><p>Geralt gestured toward the path leading north. “Vizima. It’s close, it’ll be easy to find a smith. Need my armor repaired.” </p><p>“That ship might have sailed,” Jaskier said. To emphasize the point, he reached out and stuck his whole hand through a hole in the side of Geralt’s leather chestplate. Geralt grumbled and smacked his hand away, and Jaskier laughed. “And then?”</p><p>“Across the Pontar, I think. Start heading for Kaer Morhen. Maybe pick up another contract or two on the way.” Roach nosed at Geralt’s shoulder, and he ran his hand down her long muzzle. “You?”</p><p>“Ah, I’m due in Aedirn, actually,” Jaskier said, waving towards the south. “There’s a festival coming up. Bardic competition pays out pretty well, if you place.”</p><p>“Will you place?”</p><p>“Excuse you,” Jaskier sniffed, pressing an affronted hand to his chest. “I always place.”</p><p>Geralt smiled. “Of course you do.” His smile faltered, just a little, and he said, “Might be a while before I’m back this way.”</p><p>“Well, if nothing else, I’ll see you in the spring,” Jaskier said, a familiar goodbye. Usually later in the year, but sometimes this was how the cards fell.</p><p>“See you in the spring,” Geralt echoed, and stepped forward. He kissed Jaskier quickly, murmured, “Careful on the road, bloody bard.”</p><p>Then he swung up into the saddle, and Jaskier didn’t watch him leave. He mounted his own horse, and rode south for winter. </p>
<hr/><p>Geralt heard the bard before he saw him, a sunny laugh that, this time, he turned towards. Jaskier, all in red, strode across the crowded tavern floor with aplomb, and slung himself easily into the chair across from Geralt. Blithe, as though it were still chance and not habit that brought them both to Ard Carraigh every spring. He plucked up the witcher’s drink before he even said hello.</p><p>He hissed as he swallowed. “Do witchers have taste buds?”</p><p>“No. You’re welcome to buy your own if it's too strong for you, little flower,” Geralt said, smiling broadly. Liberating the mug from Jaskier’s fingers, he eyed the bard’s scarlet jacket as he drank.</p><p>“Do you like it?” Jaskier asked, preening, running a hand across the high collar. It was a more severe cut than his usual fashion, silver filigree embroidered along the seams. “Someone once told me red was my color, and as I needed new clothes anyway…”</p><p>Geralt grinned into his beer. “I was dying when I said that.”</p><p>“You just can’t let me have anything, can you?” Jaskier sighed. </p><p>A barmaid came around, set a smaller mug before the bard. At least in the cities, it was possible to find things that weren’t actively offensive to his tongue.</p><p>“It suits you, my bloody bard,” Geralt said softly. Fondly.</p><p>Jaskier was glad for the high collar that hid the blush creeping up the back of his neck. <em> My </em>, again, and so early in the spring. He drank deeply, to buy time and think of something clever to say.</p><p>Geralt, however, carried on. “I brought you something.”</p><p>“You did?” Jaskier said, curiosity piqued. The witcher wasn’t one for gifts, either giving or receiving. He lived and died by what he could fit on his back and his horse. “What is it?”</p><p>The witcher produced a narrow parcel, all wrapped in red silk. Jaskier couldn’t tell what it was from the shape, only that it was as long as his forearm and had a reassuring weight to it. Reverently he unwound the cloth, and let out a soft gasp when he found what lay within.</p><p>A dagger in a dark leather sheath, golden dandelions inlaid all along the handle. It had a downward-sweeping crossbar, like a witcher’s silver sword, and when he slid it partway from the scabbard he saw that there were runes etched into the gleaming blade.</p><p>Awestruck, speechless, Jaskier looked up. “Geralt, is this…?”</p><p>“Silver,” Geralt said, nodding. “A monster slayer needs the proper tools.”</p><p>“I don’t know what to say,” Jaskier murmured, thumbing over the flowers in the grip.</p><p>“Say you’ll hunt with me,” Geralt said, leaning his elbows on the table. “Picked up a contract soon as I rode into town.”</p><p>Jaskier slid the dagger back into its sheath with a flourish. He leaned in, matching Geralt grin for feral grin. “Glady, my witcher. Where do we start?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank you to everyone for reading my inaugural trip into the land of geraskier, where i hope to be for a very long time. go toss a coin to <a href="https://twitter.com/hrtbrokentweets">Gen</a>, without whom this would not exist, because they're and enabler and also full of good ideas, like Jaskier all in red. you can also follow me <a href="https://twitter.com/sheepishwolfy">on twitter</a>, where i screech about dumb shit all the time.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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